Sorry
by Phire Phoenix
Summary: -One Shot- Even at the end of war, Snape gets no peace. As he ponders the ecstasy of vicotry and his newest project, he is interrupted by the last person he'd want to see, Potter. But even Potter can have something worthwhile to say. No slash, RR


This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
  
Rated PG for mild swearing  
  
I draw in a deep breath and glance around the battlefield wearily. Not too far from where I'm standing, Minerva was crouched on the ground, tentatively cradling her arm. Pain was written on her face, but so was joy. Happiness that we all felt. The battle was over. Not only was his body destroyed, but his soul was sealed inside Potter's existence. When Potter died, the soul would disintegrate. A foolproof plan, unless Potter received the kiss. In which case the Dark Lord's spirit would possess Potter's body.   
  
But the brat had assured me that if he was in any danger of receiving the kiss, he would commit suicide, not giving the Dementors a chance to do what they do best.   
  
An unnecessary precaution, I'm sure, as the Dementors have been removed from Azkaban and are being detained by Ministry Aurors until a further course of action has been decided. A waste of men, certainly, but it at least, keeps excruciatingly irritating members of the Auror Squad, such as a certain Nymphadora Tonks and her boyfriend, Remus Lupin, out of my sight. Every cloud has its silver lining.  
  
Dumbledore was sitting on the ground, his back propped against a tree. There were gashes on his arms and face which were bleeding profusely, but I could do nothing for him. Madam Pomfrey is already fussing over him, and under her direction was Ginny Weasley, Nurse in training.   
  
It's good to see that at least one female Weasley has decided to put her mothering instinct to training. Come to think of it, if Molly had done that after she married Arthur, I might not have had to endure the horrid Twins or that snotty little brat, Ronald. Percy wasn't much better, with his Hermione-Granger-like attitudes.  
  
Something moves, just outside my field of view and I snap to attention, wary of lingering death eaters. But it was only Potter, pulling his girlfriend Miss Know-it-All to her feet. I glanced around for the third member of the Golden Trio, before remembering that he had been rendered unconscious by the Cruciatus curse. Potter had personally made sure Lucius Malfoy was captured for that.  
  
Oh look, they're leaning close. About to kiss. I think I'm going to go gag.   
  
He's no better than his father. I'd say he's worse. Acting pitiful and humble for attention rather than being a stuck-up jerk doesn't make him any better. He doesn't even have his father's grades! Despite whatever protection we erect around his being, he manages to elude it and successfully lands himself in deep trouble, every single time. And then the Order has to divert half a dozen men to go after him and save his sorry hide.   
  
Like that time in Fifth year, when his beloved Godfather, Sirius-Goddamned-Black, fell through the experimental veil at the Department of Mysteries. We nearly lost Tonks in that one, and Kingsley was substantially hurt. Then there was the incident in sixth year, when he decided that trying to convince the Centaur Herd of Firenze's righteous and nobleness by taking a stroll in the Forbidden Forest was a good idea. So half the teachers are roused at midnight by a frantic Dumbledore, gesturing towards his version of a Marauder's Map and shouting at us to hurry up. That was the only time I had seen him panic.   
  
But then again, there was that time in Seventh grade. While taking the test for his apparating license, he apparated not 100 meters north of the Examiner, like he was supposed to, but 250 miles south-east, to the Death Eater meeting during which, coincidentally, I happened to be in the process of being tortured by several of Voldemort's men. One of his 'visions', no doubt. Arrogant brat thinks he needs to save me. I could've held out, there were only three. And this way, Voldemort knew of my betrayal two weeks earlier than we had planned.   
  
Just like his father, Potter has an uncanny habit of sticking his nose in where it doesn't belong.   
  
Into my pensieve, for example. The thought still makes my blood boil.   
  
Now that the war is over, I have no more obligations at Hogwarts. I believe I'll just retire to Snape Manor and devote my life to Potions. Away from the brats. Away from /the/ brat, more importantly. The brat who has just agreed to fill the Defense Against hte Dark Arts post. And his girlfriend, in the Muggle Studies course. Thank goodness Weasley is going to play Quidditch for the Chudley Cannons. With any luck, he'll break his jaw and won't be making anyone suffer with that abnormally loud mouth.  
  
But why think of such unpleasantries? The war is over, as are my obligations. I should start planning out the ingredients for that Lycanthropy potion I have been thinking off. Wolfsbane should be necessary, but care must be taken for the drink to be consumed at exactly noon on the 15th day after the full moon, otherwise, there could be side effects. Powdered root of Asphodel, maybe. And lacewings should help buffer the effects.   
  
And of course, as Murphy's law decrees, once I find something that is enjoyable, something has to come and disrupt it.   
  
This something came in the form of a very awkward looking Potter standing maybe two feet away, watching me nervously. His hair had grown long, longer than his father's had ever been, and the weight of it pulled the unruly strands flat. His robes were torn and his glasses cracked, but his eyes, his blasted emerald eyes he inherited from the first woman I asked out - and rejected me - were smiling. I, on the other hand, scowl.   
  
"Professor Snape..." He began, unable to let go of the familiar title even though it's been a year since he left Hogwarts. Upon seeing my flinch, he corrected himself hastily. "Severus" He tried, as though testing the word out. When no death threats or unforgivable curses were sent his way, he seemed to gain confidence and continued with more confidence.  
  
"I would just like to take this time to..."   
  
To what, you brat? Is this one of those sappy muggle scenes? Are you going to start sobbing and tell me you were deprived of love, that I was the only person who didn't spoil you and that you want to thank me eternally for that? Or are you going to tell me exactly how much you loathe me, that I don't deserve to be in your presence and that I was the worst potions masters Hogwarts has ever seen?  
  
"Get it over with, Potter, I don't have all day" I snapped irritably, wanting to remove him from my presence as soon as possible. He gave me an appraising look.  
  
"To apologize." I blinked at him, taken aback. Had I been anyone else, my mouth might have opened in surprise. But I was Severus Snape. Snapes did not succumb to emotion.   
  
"Not only for the way me and my friends have treated you over the seven years at Hogwarts, and assumed you to be a spy for Voldemort in the first three"   
  
Oh, now there was Irony.  
  
"But also..."  
  
Yes?  
  
"For my father, James."  
  
I was completely thrown by this statement. Whatever I had thought was coming, it wasn't this. I squint at him, to make sure I was, indeed, talking to Harry Potter. Harry "oh-look-at-me-and-my-scar" Potter. The-boy-who-bloody-well-lived-and-refuses-to-die-Potter. Harry "My-firebolt-is-cool" Potter. Harry Potter. Apologizing. For his father. I cast my eye around anxiously and it landed on Hermione, but she was tending to Ernie MacMillan. So Granger didn't put Potter up to this.   
  
What on earth is he smoking?  
  
"You were right, he was a complete airhead and he did strut around the school. And despite Remus' assuration that he did not take her by force, I still wonder how Lily ever chose to accept him. So I would like to apologize for all the things he's done to you."   
  
That said, he turned around and walked away. His final statement was mumbled, and hard to hear in the aftermath of the war and the bustle of transporting the living to St. Mungos, but it seemed to me as though he said   
  
"Goodness knows I know what that feels like"  
  
I shuddered. Oh great, now we have another thing in common, other than our mutual hate for each other and the colour of our hair.  
  
But as I stare at his retreating backside and ponder his words, my resolve seems to weaken. Maybe he's not that bad after all, that Potter kid. 


End file.
